


It's better this way

by 2W_NikiAngel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, First Date, First Kiss, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, References to Depression, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28881648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2W_NikiAngel/pseuds/2W_NikiAngel
Summary: Grantaire thought he would write to him again - Are you sure? How are you? Have you said goodbye to your family yet? Why are you leaving so fast? Don't you want to stay? - but none of it seemed right to him. He turned off the television, tucked his cell phone in his trouser pocket, and went into the hall. He put on his old boots, jacket, and favorite beanie, and went outside. He didn't care that it was almost ten at night. He needed fresh air.Enjolras flies away.Thoughts slowly returned.[Český originální text/Czech original]
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 4





	It's better this way

**Author's Note:**

> This year's first fanfic for “Les Misérables” is out! I wrote it down last year, but I still couldn't force myself to finish it. In the end, however, it was the first work that helpted me to start writing this year, and I'm gradually starting to work on all my writing plans. Among them is another, the second!, chaptered story for this fandom. You are looking forward?

There was loud laughter and shouts throughout Musain's cafe today. All the sounds came from behind the back door, where  _ Les Ámis _ met. On normal days, their usual encounters looked calm, they spoke rather seriously, and a few wrinkles appeared on their young, student faces. After meetings, they always drank quality wine, ate sweets, talked about their own lives.

But today was different. Courfeyrac was in charge of the meeting today. As soon as everyone got together, he jumped on the table and started singing about everything they should talk about that day. It was clear to everyone that after a few epic tones of his false singing, nothing serious would be solved today. Courfeyrac, as was his custom, took the whole meeting lightly and, with the loud support of his friends, performed one singing and dancing number after another. It wasn't until an hour and a half later that he bowed and said,  _ “I did my best today!” _ , jumped off the table and ended the meeting.

However, everyone remained in the room. Thanks to Courfeyrac, everyone was in a good mood and didn't want to leave their friends so soon. Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, and Grantaire sat in a corner by the window, playing cards; Feuilly was reading an old book he had ordered from the bazaar last week; Courfeyrac fanned himself with the newspaper, trying to find his lost breath; Marius and Bahorel discussed a new, dramatic series.

“What's going on here?” Combeferre asked from the door as he stepped inside and was immediately struck by the pleasant atmosphere. Everyone turned to him and pointed at Courfeyrac. “Someone will give you a chance to talk, and you'll make a grotesque out of it right away.”

“We really shouldn't have entrusted you to today's meeting,” Enjolras said, who came right after Combeferre and took off his light coat. Autumn was already here, and the days were getting colder.

“It's called taking advantage of your position, friends, everyone does it,” Courfeyrac said, shrugging. “You must have known as soon as you gave me the opportunity.” He looked at Enjolras and smiled broadly at him. He tapped the seat on the chair next to him. “Tell me, exaggerate, do it, I'm in  _ tense _ !”

“What do you think?” He asked as soon as he sat down next to him and smiled.

“That you have it,” he said hopefully. But Enjolras's gaze was neutral. “You got it, didn't you?” He looked at Combeferre, who sat across from them. “He does, doesn't he? Why doesn't he tell me anything?”

“He wants to be dramatic,” Combeferre said.

“I'm using one of the last chances.”

Courfeyrac frowned and looked at Enjolras. “One of the last? How about — You got it!” He shouted, ending around Enjolras's neck. He just laughed and nodded a few times. “God, I'm so proud of you!” His voice was an octave higher. Enjolras just shook his head at his joy. “Look at that, I finally have the opportunity to be happy for you too, so leave me the opportunity!”

“Something I should know?” Joly asked curiously when he heard what the three of them were talking about. The trio looked at him and noticed that everyone was watching them.

“Well,” Courfeyrac said, finally releasing Enjolras. “He should tell you by himself.”

“There's not much to say,” Enjolras said and Courfeyrac looked at him with a look that said straight away:  _ Are you kidding me?  _ “Very well,” he said at once, looking at all the friends waiting to see what came out of the blond. “Today I accepted an offer from Dr. Lamarque to work for him as a prosecutor.”

“My God, congratulations Enjolras!” Joly shouted.

“Why is every successful lawyer here except me!” Marius moaned, putting his head in his hands.

“Lawyers are upright, but — you're awesome bro!” Bahorel said, patting him fraternally on the back.

“We must take a drink then! I'll bring something,” Grantaire offered, disappearing into the café.

“I always knew you'd make it far one day. But right after school? You are incredible, Enjolras,” Feuilly proudly praised him, making Enjolras's cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Someone will finally be able to cut me out of trouble,” Bossuet laughed.

“You will help people as you always wanted. I believe you are happy,” Jehan said kindly.

They all pulled up chairs at one table and together they talked about what kind of work he would do. Enjolras's eyes shone beautifully. As always when he was talking about something he loved and fulfilled. His friends just nodded, sometimes asked questions, sometimes told a joke about lawyers. “You're frowning,” Jehan said seriously, pointing to Combeferre. He sat at the table in silence all the time, sometimes his eyes dodged somewhere into the space, but most of all he didn't smile at all. Enjolras spoke enthusiastically about his future work, but Combeferre didn’t seem to enjoy it. “Aren't you happy?” He asked softly.

Combeferre looked at him, blinked a few times, and sighed deeply. “I am,” he said, looking at Enjolras. He smiled sadly at him. “I already told you at that lunch together.”

“Uh, lunch together,” Bahorel said with a raised eyebrow, and they both laughed. Everyone was always a little tired of their almost fraternal relationship. They preferred to ask them every month:  _ And when will the wedding happen? _

“I'm probably missing something. Why are you both looking so serious?”Joly warned.

“Enjolras hasn't told you one small detail,” Combeferre said, running his fingers over his dry lips. Bossuet would have sworn on the spot that he had seen a few tears glisten in his eyes.

“This makes me a little nervous,” Jehan admitted, looking at Enjolras. “Is there something wrong?”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “Well. This is it. I got a job as a prosecutor. It's a wonderful opportunity to move on in life. Get such a job right after school? Dream. Something that I really wanted for a long time and I was certainly quite boring and annoying for all of you, as I kept talking about it.”

“Forgiven,” Bossuet said with a smile.

Enjolras returned the smile. “Do you know how I was in that freshman law practice back then?”

“You mean the two weeks in New York?” Jehan asked.

“Yes. And then in sophomore year?”

“Also in New York, but for a month,” Bahorel said. “It may not seem so, but I really noticed you disappeared.”

“I appreciate that,” Enjolras admitted. “And another year?”

“Same thing again,” Feuilly said. “I remember calling on Skype then, and you said Lama — Oh my god.” Feuilly looked at Enjolras in surprise, covering his mouth with his hand and trying to find his lost voice several times. He looked like a dry fish. Joly almost jumped to his feet to measure his heartbeat when Feuilly suddenly shook his head and said, “You're going to be the prosecutor in New York.”

“What?!” They all shouted together and they turned to Enjolras.

“That's right,” said Enjolras. He was smiling, but there was something wrong with his smile. He looked sad. “Lamarque has been talking about this since my first practice. He praised me. He told me that he has great relationships with judges and lawyers in New York. He had some commitments in Paris at the time, so he always returned to France. But he kept talking about wanting to go back one day. Permanently. After high school, he told me he was looking for a good assistant for his law firm. He offered me the place on the plane and I accepted. A month before the final exams, he asked me if I would be willing to move for work. It never occurred to me in a dream that he meant it. I said yes. And he told me two weeks ago that my entire practice with him was just a test of whether he would be happy with me. And he was. So when I did the state exam a week ago, he immediately asked me if I would like to fly with him.” He looked at his friends, who had their mouths open in surprise and were silent. “I told him yes today.”

“Wow,” Courfeyrac said. “So you're leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Like - for good?” Bahorel asked.

“I'll come back, of course. But probably only once every six months. Maybe.”

“So, you'll be American,” Bossuet laughed.

“I'll still be French,” Enjolras protested. “Living in New York won't change that.”

Something broke. Everyone turned to the door. Grantaire stood in them. He dropped the tray on which ten glasses of rum were prepared. His mouth was slightly open, he blinked and he was breathing fast. “W-what?” He asked suddenly in surprise. He could hardly be heard speaking softly. “Are you moving?” He asked, staring at Enjolras.

Enjolras stood and walked over to Grantaire. He picked up the tray and began collecting shards from the shots. Joly and Feuilly joined him quietly. “Yes,” said Enjolras without looking at him. “I am moving.”

“Stop it, please, I'll do it,” said the waitress suddenly, who appeared in the doorway next to Grantaire, with a broom and a shovel in her hand. The boys thanked her and apologized for Grantaire. He was still standing in the doorway in surprise.

“I — I'm going to smoke, yeah,” he said suddenly.

“Wait, I'll go with you!” Bahorel shouted, but Grantaire had already disappeared from the room.

Grantaire came out in front of the coffee shop, fished a cigarette and a lighter out of his pocket, quickly put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. On the first breath, he inhaled almost half. Nicotine odor filled his senses. Under normal circumstances, he would enjoy the taste of a cigarette, he might even growl happily, but not now. He wanted to intoxicate the scent and taste. Until he is able to destroy himself with something else. He smoked ten of them before he reached his small apartment. He threw logs on the ground and didn't even stop to step on them. Maybe he crashed into someone during the way, maybe he was completely alone. He didn't really remember anything. All he knew was that he wanted to be home as soon as possible.

When he opened the door to his apartment, he felt as if everything was falling on him. The walls were a little dirtier, the floor more creaking, the walls closer together, and everything smelled strange. He knew it was just smoke, alcohol, and paint. He was used to the smell, it was his home. But now he hated him. He wanted to smell cinnamon, vanilla, strawberries and burnt wood. This is how Enjolras smelled.

_ Enjolras. He flies away. _

Grantaire had to shake his head. He wanted the thought out of his head. But it didn't work. It kept coming back to him like a boomerang.

_ Enjolras flies away. _

With a quick motion, he opened the sideboard, took out several glasses and plates, placed them on the line, and pulled out the whiskey with his hand. He kept it there for the worst cases. He tried to reduce his drinking. Everyone told him he should do something about it. He didn't listen to them. But then, when he was drunk, he decided to drive and almost killed himself and the boy he had met that night and was as drunk as he was, thinking only of sex, what was to come; he decided to do something about it. Everyone praised him. Even Enjolras told him that he was very happy that he was already trying to fight it. He blushed then as a little girl.

_ Enjolras flies away. _

He had to drink. He just had to. The first gulp was fast and almost suffocated. He coughed, but didn't want to stop. Another gulp began to burn in his mouth. The alcohol was strong, but the old, good whiskey was unique. He originally wanted to drink this at the wedding of Joly and Musichetta, which they had been talking about for several months. But now he just wanted to get drunk.

_ Enjolras flies away. _

He sat down on the sofa and started drinking straight from the bottle. His eyes twinkled, his throat tightened. He never drank that fast. Whatever happened, he always tried to enjoy alcohol. That's why he drank it. Maybe his friends thought he was drinking to forget something or get out of his depression, but he really just liked it. He wanted to drink it. Those bad feelings came only then. The alcohol awakened in him the bad things he was able to overcome thanks to his cheerful and intelligent nature. But then there was no going back, and he drank to silence the voices in his head that they hated.

_ Enjolras flies away _ .

Grantaire tilted his head and swallowed several times. How come he didn't even feel the real taste of alcohol? He just swallowed something. It bothered him, and he felt his whole body itch. His cell phone beeped. He tried to ignore it. But when he beeped several times and his whole pocket vibrated, he pulled it out and looked at the display. New conversation.

[ _ Courfeyrac _ started a new conversation.]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ invited  _ Grantaire  _ and _ 6 mutual friends _ .]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : So how do we do that?]

[ _ Bahorel _ : This weekend in Musain?]

[ _ Bossuet _ : Quite predictable.]

[ _ Bahorel _ : Yeah no.]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : But you know that these orthodox things suit him quite well.]

[ _ Combeferre _ : I think Musain is the best choice.]

[ _ Joly _ : I'll join you to come up with anything.]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : No one even assumed you wouldn't participate!]

[ _ Joly _ : LOL I didn't mean that. But I probably won't be involved in any planning.]

[ _ Bahorel _ : We need every hand, Doctor!]

[ _ Bossuet _ : Dude, he's almost crying right now.]

[ _ Joly _ : I’m not crying!]

[ _ Joly _ : It's an allergy.]

[ _ Jehan _ : I'm not even with you and I know you're lying.]

[ _ Joly _ : You're evil!]

[ _ Bossuet _ : :*]

[ _ Jehan _ : But I totally understand. I'll cry that night too!]

[ _ Feuilly _ : Who will not?]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : I've already called Madam Houchelop.]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : Saturday at seven in the evening in Musain. Wear something nice!]

[ _ Feuilly _ : Roger, sir!]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : Sir? I like that :3]

[ _ Combeferre _ : Haha]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : I almost forgot to name the conversation.]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : Be active as much as you can!]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ : Make presents!]

[ _ Courfeyrac _ renames joint conversation to  _ FAREWELL PARTY FOR ENJOLRAS _ ]

Grantaire looked at the name as if he couldn't read. He read it over and over again.  _ Farewell party for Enjolras. Farewell party for Enjolras.  _ After a few seconds, he stopped perceiving the name. It fogged before his eyes, he saw sparkles, then only fog. He felt sick. Tears welled up in his eyes.

_ Enjolras flies away _ .

It took two days for Grantaire to be able to get out of bed. His thoughts kept screaming at him, demanding an explanation of why Enjolras wanted to fly away. It was different than when he decided to start demonstrating his abilities outside France. He always came back for a while. Although it was a week, two or the last month, but it was more than difficult for the brunette, and his whole body itched when he was to meet him again at the Musain Café, where he told his friends what his professional practice was. He knew now that Enjolras wouln’t return. And although he promised to return every six months, he didn’t believe him. The painful thought that stabbed him in the frontal lobe kept alerting him that Enjolras would soon establish a new life in New York, make new friends, and forget his beloved France before the plane landed on the runway in America.

He had to drink to fall asleep. All he needed was a few glasses to drive away the painful thoughts and close his eyes. But they came back every time he woke up, his mind awoke and he realized what would follow in a few days. He had to drink again. And again. And again.

He was in a foolish delirium for two days. Sleep and drink. He could do nothing else, his body had no power and his own ego had no power over the thoughts and horrors of the future.

It wasn't until he awoke with a headache on the third day that he realized it was gone. His thoughts calmed for a moment, moving to the corner of his brain, where they waited to attack again with their aching knives. But now all he could feel was pain in his throbbing sleep and wooden legs. He rested for a few hours before his low self-esteem made sure he suffered again.

He got out of bed, took a shower, brushed his teeth, put on new clothes. He always felt like a new man, all the while hiding behind a stinking wreck with circles under his eyes and greasy hair. He drank cold water with lemon and had something to eat. He felt strangely weak. It wasn't until he stood on the weighing-machine Joly had acquired for him that he noticed his strange eating habits, which already bordered on a disorder Grantaire didn't want to talk about; he noticed that he had lost almost three pounds. He chewed the bun for almost an hour before he was able to swallow it whole and stretch his protesting stomach.

He turned on the television to feel that at least someone was in the apartment. Voices from the speakers filled his small apartment and stroked his body, as if reassuring him and giving him strength that everything would be better.

The day passed faster than he expected. It was getting dark soon, it was getting cold outside. When he thought it would be good, Enjolras crept into his mind again. He tried to prevent it, switch to his favorite series, play the sound out loud so as to shout out his own thoughts, for which his neighbors soon began banging on the wall and shouting at him to muffle it; but nothing helped. His hands itched with the urge to reach for a bottle of alcohol.

He reached for his body, but to reach for his cell phone, which lay on the kitchen counter next to an unfinished bottle of wine. His eyes wandered to her throat, but he preferred to focus quickly on the display. A joint photograph of their revolutionary group, taken by Jehan at their Christmas party, began to shine on this before everyone scattered to their homes. It was the first time in six years that everyone had met for a party. They enjoyed it so much that they forgot the time, and Madame Hucheloup had to tell them unobtrusively that it was time to go. They said goodbye outside for a long time, until almost everyone missed the last bus. In the photo, right in the middle, in the arms of Courfeyrac and Combeferre, was Enjolras. He smiled slightly, his face red from the heat and the warm wine they drank. He was wearing his favorite white turtleneck, which accentuated his radiant hair and shiny eyes. Did Enjolras know at this point that this would be his last event with friends?

Grantaire quickly clicked on the mail icon. Without thinking more about it, he wrote to Enjolras.

[ _ Grantaire _ : Hi. I believe you have a lot before you leave. Don't you want to help with packing?]

The answer came faster than he expected.

[ _ Enjolras _ : Hello. Thanks for the offer, but I can handle it.]

Grantaire thought he would write to him again - _ Are you sure? How are you? Have you said goodbye to your family yet? Why are you leaving so fast? Don't you want to stay? _ \- but none of it seemed right to him. He turned off the television, tucked his cell phone in his trouser pocket, and went into the hall. He put on his old boots, jacket, and favorite beanie, and went outside. He didn't care that it was almost ten at night. He needed fresh air.

_ Enjolras flies away. _

Thoughts slowly returned.

Grantaire was out until the morning. He wandered around Paris, like his favorite park. He walked into alleys that no one knew and where he came across old and new friends. From school, from work, from the businesses he went to, to old lovers, to old ladies, whom he helped with shopping. As if Paris was just one road he'd taken so many times and knew all the neighbors. He didn't stop at a single pub, though his legs carried him there several times and he returned to the doorstep in circles. He always peered out the window, took a deep breath, as if he could inhale all the nicotine smoke that clung to the ceiling into his lungs, and swallowed dry as he imagined the taste of his favorite, red, expensive wine; and left again. He didn't want to fall into the routine again. He knew how harmful it was to him. And if he was able to destroy himself in the beginning, how could he end up when Enjolras really leaves?

As soon as the thoughts of Enjolras's departure returned, he added in a step. At one in the morning he began to run. He ran for almost an hour. His body burned, his sweat chilled, and his legs ached before he could sit on the bench to breathe a little.

At five o'clock in the morning it began to dawn and the bakeries opened. He bought his favorite baguette and bottled water. He ate in the park, but threw most of it to the pigeons, who began to gather with him in the hope that he would give them something good. He walked into one, two, three parks and looked at the trees, counting the branches on the ground, trying to avoid the cracks on the stone pavement — all just to keep his mind busy.

It was exactly eight o'clock in the morning when he reached the door of Enjolras's apartment. He looked at the apartment complex as if he had seen it for the last time. At the gate, one of the ladies who lived on the same floor as the blonde recognized him and let him in. “Are you going to help Alexander move?” She asked him as the elevator closed the door behind them. Her question stabbed him in the heart like a stake. He couldn't say anything about it. He just nodded. “Everyone is sad about this news, he's a good guy. Maybe if I introduced him to my granddaughter in time, he could still be here,” she laughed.

And so there stood now, a tired, yet not sleepy, brunette, who was looking at the door of apartment 23, as if afraid that a monster would jump up behind him and catch him and swallow him. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Everyone knew that Enjolras was a morning bird. He hated it when he woke up later than seven in the morning. It was as if he had wasted all day. That's why he went to bed around eleven o'clock at night. The others laughed at him for behaving like an old man. But Grantaire found his consistency charming.

Enjolras opened the door. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a red, washed T-shirt. His hair was clipped so it wouldn't fall into his eyes. He had faint circles beneath them. He looked sleepy.

“Grantaire?” He asked in surprise, blinking a few times. “What are you doing here?”

“Breakfast delivery,” the brunette laughed, raising a hand that held a plastic bag. Along the way, he bought Enjolras his favorite lemon cakes and cranberry lemonade.

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispered, taking Grantaire's bag. He looked inside and smiled. He looked ahead. Grantaire was still standing in the same place, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes moving away from the door to the ground. “Do you want to move on?” The blond asked, half-opening the door to indicate that he was welcome.

“Well, if you don't mind,” Grantaire laughed and went inside.

“I'll make you some tea,” the blond said as he walked past him into the kitchen he had next to his bedroom.

“Um,” Grantaire growled instead of answering, swallowing dry. His eyes focused on all the boxes in the apartment. All were carefully packed, described and stacked, according to size and weight. Every door in the apartment was open to show that there was nothing left. Only wardrobes, a bed and one table. Everything else was stacked in the corner of the room, waiting for its new owners.

Grantaire had to bite the inside of his face to keep from moaning loudly and begging Enjolras to stay. Instead, he took off his shoes and went to the kitchen, which was the only one left in the same condition as he was used to. He sat down at a small table with only two chairs opposite him. Enjolras placed the finished tea in front of Grantaire and placed a cup of hot coffee on the other side. He sat across from him and silently handed him a sugar bowl. “Wouldn't rum be better?” Grantaire tried to make a joke — though he knew he wasn't joking so much and would really welcome something  _ sharper  _ \- but Enjolras just glared at him instead of answering. Everyone knew that Enjolras was an abstinent. He drank only in exceptional cases - such as at their Christmas party, where five people had to persuade him to drink one cup of mulled wine and drank it for a good hour and a half - so he had no alcohol at home. “Sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry,” Enjolras said truthfully, leaning his elbows on the table, grabbing the cup by the ear with one hand and ruffling his thick hair with the other. “I didn't sleep much.”

“Neither do I,” Grantaira admitted, pouring three large tablespoons of sugar into his mug. “H-how's packing?”

“Good.”

“That's good.” Grantaire looked to the right, where the living room was. It was the only room that was not divided by a door and was connected to the kitchen. There was nothing left in it. Even the television and couch were gone. All that remained was a wooden, low table with nine boxes on it. They were not described and were laboriously wrapped in gold paper. “What is it?” He asked curiously.

Enjolras didn’t answer him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Do you mind if I came?”

“No. I just thought you were preparing for your school show today.”

Oh, Grantaire completely forgot about it. Was it already Thursday? “I already arranged it yesterday.” He didn’t comment on the lie that Enjolras had immediately seen. “I know you didn't want to help, but—”

“I really don't need it, Grantaire, I've got everything set up.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“What else to expect from you,” Grantaire laughed, sipping from his cup. The tea was still hot and his tongue burned slightly. He began to clap and make dissatisfied noises.

“Is that why you came? To help me? I wrote to you yesterday that I don't need help.”

“I know, I was just thinking.” He paused. There wasn't a single logical reason why he should be here at all. Enjolras answered him clearly. All their friends would respect that. Everyone will miss him the same. But Grantaire was selfish. He couldn’t imagine life without Enjolras. No sense of what life has meant to him in recent years. Thanks to him, he found a light that helped him fight against all the darkness that life had prepared for him. Thanks to him-

“I can feel you thinking.” Grantaire winced. He looked at Enjolras, who was holding a mug of coffee near his mouth and sipping slowly. “Is there something wrong?”

“I'm just thinking.” The blond growled something incomprehensible. “Hey! Sometimes even someone like  _ me  _ needs to think.”

“I didn't say anything,” Enjolras began to defend himself, setting the mug on the table.

“You didn't have to say anything to understand,  _ Leader _ ,” Grantaire said, inflating his cheeks dramatically. “So I don't get offended and don't want to make it up to you.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“I know. No one can ever force you to do something you don't want.”

“Exactly.”

“Even if it's a date with a friend.”

Enjolras glanced at the sugar bowl and stiffened. “Gran—”

“Jesus, I didn't mean to make you feel bad! I meant it as…”

Enjolras laughed and looked back at Grantaire, who was nervously scratching at the fabric of his cap and blushing sweetly. “I know what you mean,” Enjolras said truthfully.

It had been four years since Grantaire had come to Café Musain and asked Enjolras to wait in front of the back door to attend their secret meetings. He immediately noticed that Grantaire was all red and his hair covered in gel. He smelled like strong cologne and peppermint gum. He tapped his feet on the whole meeting and refilled his glass with water at any moment. Enjolras was nervous about his behavior.

When Enjolras went to the place where he was to meet Grantaire after the meeting, the brunette was waiting for him. He held a small bouquet of red roses in his hand. Although Enjolras was a man who had no relationship behind him, he never fell in love or knew how such ordinary relationships worked; he knew what was going on from a distance. He noticed Grantaire looking at him. For a long time, as if he were dreaming. He noticed what Grantaire was sketching. His, always decently, sometimes just his face, sometimes his whole body, he could see sketches of nineteenth-century clothing. He heard Grantaire talking about him. As if he were the angel himself, who came to Earth to protect the people.

When he reached him, Grantaire cleared his throat nervously several times, then asked if he would go on a date with him. He said it so softly that the blond could barely hear him. Enjolras looked at the bouquet and thought. He had only known Grantaire for a year, and he still didn't know what to think of him. He irritated him, but he couldn't tell each other that the brunette was completely indifferent to him. He sensed his cleverness and good arguments, he knew he was talented, but…

_ But _ was stronger than anything else. He didn’t accept his offer that day. He thanked him, apologized, and wanted to leave when Grantaire grabbed his wrist and handed him a bouquet saying,  _ “It’s yours, take it.” _ Immediately, he smiled broadly at him and bowed away.

When they met three days later at a restaurant on the campus of a law school, Grantaire waved at him and sat down next to him. He complained about how difficult his studies were this year, how he had to find a new job and move to a worse neighborhood. And yet he ordered expensive wine and deer steak.  _ Priority _ .

Everything between them was normal. Enjolras attended school, wrote newspaper articles, helped several charities, and participated in demonstrations and public hearings. Grantaire studied, went to work, met everyone in the area, dated several girls and men, whom he sometimes went to introduce to Musain and his friends. They got to know each other, and although they could still quarrel and stand on opposite ends of the big questions of life, they declared themselves friends for the first time in two years.

So he knew that what Grantaire had said wasn’t made for hurting him. He didn't want to blame him. He was just eloquent and perhaps too honest. His mouth spoke before his brain sent out a signal or was able to break it. He knew that the reason he said that was just to relive the memories.

Grantaire succeeded, and Enjolras found himself several times at the thought of what would have happened then if he had agreed. Would they go on a date to a luxury restaurant? Or would they go to a cafe? Or a walk in the park? Would they eat at stalls or go to expensive wine bars? Would they go for a walk around the Seine or to visit a museum? Would Grantaire try to hold his hand? His palms were wide, his fingers long, his grip certainly strong and manly. Would he try to kiss him? How would he taste? After wine or menthol?

“Sorry, it was stupid—”

“What would you do?”

“…What?”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, who raised an eyebrow. “What would you do then if I agreed?”

Grantaire blinked and blushed. He glanced at the tabletop and tapped his fingers on the mug. “I'd take you on a date, wouldn't I?” He sipped quickly from his cup and cleared his throat. “And then we would see.”

“And then we would see,” Enjolras repeated after him, grunting.

“Well, yeah.” Grantaire looked out the window. A faint light streamed into the room. Even so, the brunette felt strangely hot. “You don't even know what you lost,” Grantaire tried to end their conversation.

“Really?” Enjolras asked, frowning. “And what did I lose?”

“Well me, of course!” Grantaire laughed.

Enjolras already had a question in his tongue -  _ Is that all? _ \- but he preferred to swallow it with the last drops of his coffee. As he placed the cup on the table, he looked at Grantaire and honestly asked, “And could you at least show me?”

“What do you think?” Grantaire asked, confused.

“What could I have if I agreed then.”

Grantaire was silent for a moment. His thoughts subsided and his brain stopped working for a few tens of minutes. He blinked in confusion, keeping his eyes on Enjolras, whose blue eyes looked so - honest. He didn’t lie. He asked absolutely seriously. “W-wait, are you serious?” Enjolras nodded. “D-date? Do you want to go on a date? With me?”

“On a fake date, we should be more specific,” the younger corrected him.

“Why?”

Enjolras smiled slightly. “Like saying goodbye between two friends before one of them leaves.”

And the pain Grantaire hadn't felt since entering the apartment was back. It stabbed him in the heart like an ice pole, making itself known more than before. Grantaire had to look down so that Enjolras would not see in his blue eyes how much the sentence had thrown him off. He put a cup of tea to his lips and asked quietly, “Friday?”

“Sure. I have free time every day until I leave.”

Another blow. Grantaire swallowed to keep his throat dry. “I'll pick you up at eight,” he said in a firm voice that struggled with willpower.

Enjolras just nodded. “I look forward to it.”

Grantaire didn't even remember answering him.

When the bell rang through Enjolras's apartment on Friday, he was ready. He put on his favorite moccasins, which perfectly complemented his style of casual elegance, and opened the door. “Hi,” Grantaire greeted him loudly, saluting him as if he were his captain. Enjolras could smell a strong puff of cigarettes on him. He smoked whenever he was upset or nervous. During the exams, the others smelled him for miles. Enjolras didn't like the smell of cigarettes, perhaps because of his allergy, which always made itself known after inhaling gray smoke; or because he always remembered his uncle, who hadn't given a shot without a cigar or cigarette, and whenever he looked after him like a little boy, he liked to blow smoke into his face. Which Grantaire knew, and that's probably why he was trying to beat it with his cologne. By the strong smell, Enjolras was sure he had to pour at least half a bottle on himself.

“Hello,” Enjolras returned his greeting, walking out of the apartment and locking the door.

“You look great,” Grantaire said with something like a blush on his face. Enjolras looked at his clothes. He still looked the same as he normally did. He blinked and just shrugged. “You should say now - Grantaire you too,” the elder warned him, putting his hands in his pockets.

“You look…” Enjolras paused. He examined him from head to toe. His hair had been combed and gelled for the first time since he'd met him. He exchanged the pulled-up sweater for a dark green shirt, over which he put on his favorite leather jacket, from which he removed all badges and erased political slogans. He took off his torn pants and put on jeans that had a small red spot under his knee. Apparently he smeared them with paint when he painted, and he didn't notice. “...different,” the blond added, and the brunette just laughed. He scratched his head and grunted in disgust. He was used to always touching a knitted hat under which he hid his lush mane, but today he only touched a greasy gel. “Can we?” The blond asked as Grantaire had been examining his dirty fingers for some time.

“S-sure. I hope you like sweets! I mean, of course you like sweets, I've been with you in cafés already. And you still have cookies at meetings in your mouth. I mean, not that I look at your mouth as you eat or what you eat, but— ”

“Grantaire,” he stopped the whirlwind of words.

Grantaire took a deep breath and exhaled. “Thanks,” he said truthfully. “I'm—”

“Nervous,” the younger man added, calling both of them to the elevator. “I get it. But you have no reason why.”

“You just think so,” Grantaire whispered to himself, and they both entered the elevator.

Grantaire's nervousness didn’t subside until they sat down together at a nearby coffee shop to see Enjolras enjoying his favorite lemon cakes. He didn’t rejoice or smile, but he showed it with his eyes, which shone like a child who had found the gift he longed for so much under the Christmas tree. He played with his fingers with the sugar that stuck to them and always licked them gently. When Grantaire asked him if he wanted to join, his cheeks flushed and he nodded quickly. Enjolras may not have expressed joy like other people, but when someone learned to read in it, it was easy to understand. It took Grantaire almost three years, but he never considered it a waste of time. It was uplifting to have someone as sincere and genuine as Enjolras next to him.

After a sweet breakfast, they went for a walk. Even though it was autumn, the sun was still shining enough and it was a pleasant twenty degrees outside. They walked through the park on the campus of the law school, which they had visited several times before, and Grantaire told him everything he could think of. Thanks to architecture classes, which he took as an optional subject, he talked about the buildings that stood around the park and their history. Thanks to his artistic talent, he talked about what he would do to capture the beauty of the sun's rays in the treetops. Thanks to his enthusiasm for the children, who ran around them with balls and small dogs, he dreamed of how he would like to have a family one day. And Enjolras listened intently. Perhaps due to the absent expression, it seemed as if their conversation was one-sided, but Grantaire knew that the blond always preferred to listen rather than speak. It changed only in meetings and in matters of morality, security and politics. It was hard to silence him there.

They walked through the park to the Luxembourg Palace. Grantaire took two tickets from his pocket and they walked together in front of the main gate of the palace. The season was long over, so they were lucky not to come across many tourists. Grantaire, who loved history and art, never understood how Enjolras, who loved Paris with all his heart, was unable to visit its main attractions during the years he had lived in Paris. Half a year ago, Combeferre enthusiastically told him how he had finally forced Enjolras to go on a tour in Louvre, where they had spent the day. He then had trouble dragging Enjolras back home when the guard began to warn them that they would be closing in fifteen minutes. Surprised by the beauty, he spent a week, enthusiastically participating in every conversation that included old manuscripts ever since. Therefore, Grantaire wasn’t surprised that Enjolras listened enthusiastically to every word of their guide and was able to ask a few insignificant details, which he went through with the guide, and he enthusiastically commented on them.

By lunchtime Grantaire led Enjolras into a remote restaurant he had never heard of. Even as he sat down in his chair, he could smell the familiar smell of fish. “They make the best pikeperch in wine. You should try,” Grantaire told him enthusiastically as he ordered the shrimp himself. Enjolras loved seafood. His grandfather was a fisherman, so he had a fish from his grandfather on his desk every Sunday after an hour in church since he was a child. When he grew up a little, he went fishing with him and enjoyed every small catch. However, he did not have a heart to kill anything, so he always released them back into the water. “I should call him,” Enjolras said softly as he finished and poked his fork into the bones he had pulled from the fish.

After a great lunch, they decided to take a walk. Twenty minutes later, they came to the door of an old library that Enjolras had never visited. “I think you'll like this a lot,” Grantaire boasted as he entered, quietly greeting his friend who was working that day and going up the stairs to the third floor. There was an elderly lady sitting behind the counter, smiling fondly at both of them and handing them white gloves. Confused, Enjolras took them in his hand and followed Grantaire, who walked among the shelves as if they were cabinets in his own house. “Look,” he said as he pulled an old book from one of the top shelves, from which a few specks of dust fell. He laid it carefully on the table and pointed through the glass above the book to the front page. Enjolras' pupils dilated. He quickly pulled on his gloves and walked over to the table. He looked through each page in detail through the glass, which also served as a magnifying glass. Old writings about the French Revolution - diaries, documents, decrees. All in one place. Enjolras' favorite historical period, about which he had read every book and watched every document. While Grantaire had walked back and forth between the shelves ten times and read something occasionally, Enjolras was still sitting at one table, reading important, old diaries over and over.

Grantaire ended his enthusiasm a few hours later when he told him he had another surprise for him. Embarrassed, Enjolras rose from his seat, but as soon as they left, he asked the older lady for a business card so as not to forget this unique place, which immediately became one of his favorites. They took a quick step to the Seine, where a cruise ship was waiting. Enjolras experienced this for the first time too. Grantaire and I sat in the upper seats, their still-warm winds beating their faces and watching the sunset. They were silent, looking around and breathing in the unique Parisian air.

When the ship stopped and the crew began to say goodbye to all the passengers, Grantaire stopped at the pier and asked, “There are now two options for how this could continue. Do you want to choose?”

“I'm listening.”

“I can either accompany you home, thank you for today, and see you tomorrow.”

“Or?”

“Or - you can come to me for tea or coffee and a nice movie.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment before asking, “Am I safe with you?”

“That offended me,  _ Leader _ ,” Grantaire laughed, puffing his cheeks. “Sure, it's just an innocent invitation to the movie! What else could I think?”

“Because of what you're saying—”

“Oh, I'm just making stories,” the brunette laughed and sighed. “If it was that easy, I wouldn't do anything else to invite someone into my house.” Enjolras smiled slightly at him. “So…your answer?” He finally asked.

“I'd love to go.” Grantaire turned immediately and led Enjolras toward his apartment. But before that, Enjolras had noticed how widely his friend had smiled.

Less than half an hour later, Grantaire unlocked the door to his needy abode. It was a small apartment in which one room served as a living room, kitchen and bedroom at the same time. One door led to the bathroom, where Grantaire only had a toilet and a small shower, and the other to his study, where he painted.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Grantaire said as he began to look in the cupboard for snacks.

Enjolras took off his blue jacket and sat down on the sofa, which Grantaire still had a down pillow and duvet on. He felt strange, as if invading his privacy. He looked around the room. He had picked up Grantaire several times before, even having to bring him to bed in drunken delirium a few times, but he had never had a chance to look around again. He already understood why Grantaire had never suggested that meetings be held at his apartment. There would hardly be three people, let alone ten. “I didn't know you had a cat,” he said, noticing a bowl of water and dry granules.

Grantaire walked over to Enjolras, placed two bowls full of chips on the table in front of them, and sat down next to him. “I don’t. I'm just feeding some wanderers. I have six of them here in the winter. They eat, sleep and run out again.”

“Didn't you think about catching them, take them to the vet and put them in a shelter? They would be better there.”

“You'd still save someone,” the brunette laughed, putting a piece of chips in his mouth. “They are free outside, what would give them a shelter? Just bars.”

“Food, heat, castration, a new family?”

“But I do it with love!” Grantaire shouted, frowning. “Don't take it from me.”

“I'm not taking it from you, I just think—”

“Can we watch the movie?” Enjolras just sighed and nodded. Such discussions could wait. Maybe it would be better if he talked to Jehan. He had years of experience in rescuing animals and would certainly persuade him thanks to his arguments - and also his famous puppy eyes.

Grantaire turned on the television, started the movie, and leaned his back against the soft pillow. Enjolras watched him for a moment, but when Grantaire never looked at him, he sighed, reached for one of the bowls, and placed it on his lap.

Grantaire smiled when the film was in its first quarter. “Is something wrong?” Enjolras asked, looking at his friend, who finally tore his eyes away from the screen and stared at the wall.

“It's after midnight. Your fake date is over,” he looked back at the screen. He put two more chips in his mouth and when he finally swallowed, he said, “If you want, you can go home.” Enjolras recognized something in his voice that he didn't like. Grantaire definitely didn't want to fire him, he was sure of that. More like he regretted that it was over.

“I don't like not finishing movies,” he said truthfully, looking back at the screen. Romantic comedy was definitely not a genre to choose voluntarily. In fact, he didn't even know exactly what the film was about. More than the dialogues, he was interested in the warmth that radiated from Grantaire. There was something else about him. It was as if he was suffocating something and trying to speak only with his body.

As he took a breath to ask him, Grantaire was faster, “What was your first date like?”

“Sorry?”

“First date.” Grantaire turned to Enjolras and smiled. “Mine was in high school, with a classmate who had a face full of acne that her blind brother could read fairy tales on her at night.”

“You're disgusting,” Enjolras said, but he had to make sure he didn't smile.

“But you think I’m funny,” Grantaire said truthfully, raising an eyebrow. “And it wasn't until my graduation year with a boy, I was a jerk to admit that I also like boys. You know. Youth.” He shrugged and took another pair of potato chips. “What about you? A girl or a boy?”

“Boy.”

“Nice,” he laughed, looking down. “It was good?”

“I didn’t have any expectations. And it turned out very well. I enjoyed it.”

“And what did he look like?”

“Like you.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras again and blinked in confusion. “L-like me?”

“You're my first date, Grantaire.”

Grantaire's pupils dilated. If he hadn't held the bowl firmly in his hands, it would have fallen to the ground from how much his knees began to shake. “First-first… Enjolras, haven't you had a date yet?” Enjolras just shook his head. “Why didn't you tell me? We could have done something else, I'd better prepare for it and— “

“And what? Would you change anything today?”

Grantaire swallowed loudly. “N-no, but it would be better if you spent it with someone else.”

“Can you think about anyone?”

“No one in particular,” he said quickly, finally placing the bowl back on the table. “But to lose your first time with me is — Jesus, I didn't mean it your first time, as  _ the first time _ , but for the first time as... You know what, we understand each other, don't we?”

Enjolras smiled. “You're blabbering.”

“I know, I'm sorry, I'm nervous.” He ruffled his hair, which had almost no gel left.

“Why?”

Grantaire breathed loudly. “Because I wanted it to be perfect, but this just wasn't a perfect date, so you didn't even want a date, just what it would look like, but now that I know it could—”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras stopped several volleys of his words and leaned slightly toward him. “Shut up,” he said before wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders. He felt Grantaire straighten and stiffen in his arms. “Thank you very much for today. I enjoyed it.”

“B-but—”

“No  _ buts _ . It was perfect,” he said throughout the day and hugged him even tighter as proof of his words. Grantaire wasn't expecting anything, he quickly wrapped his arms around Enjolras's hips and pressed him against himself. He placed his forehead on his shoulder and inhaled his wonderful scent. “I never believed we could experience something so nice together.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered, his voice as if stroking Enjolras all over. He fidgeted and sighed loudly. “Do you know how a proper date should end?” He didn't wait for an answer, pulled away from the blond, and kissed him on the lips before he could react. Grantaire's lips were dry, but after several failed relationships and lustful nights, he was experienced. Enjolras's lips were soft and tasted of salt from chips. His lower lip trembled.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered, moving his hand from his shoulders to his cheek. It was burning. He didn't know if it was shame or excitement. “You know this…”

“This?”

“It’s not possible.”

Grantaire closed his eyes in pain. “Because you don't love me?”

“Because  _ you  _ love  _ me _ .” He placed both palms on his cheeks and pulled away from him to look at him. “Look at me.” He waited for Grantaire to grant his request. As their blue eyes merged into one fused color, Enjolras continued, “I like you. I'd love to prove it. But I don't want to lose you. After what we went through and how long we went on to be together today. If it were possible… if I didn't jeopardize any of what we built—”

“You won't endanger me, I want it myself.”

Enjolras didn't know what to say. Grantaire was never indifferent to him. The unknown became a challenge, the challenge a friend, and a friend someone who meant more to him than he realized. It wasn't love, but neither a friendship. He worried about it because he couldn't name it. And now… “I'm leaving.”

“Stop saying that,” Grantaire growled, closing his eyes again. “It hurts already.” He placed his palm on his hand and whispered, “At least give me this. Right now. One fucking moment when we can be together…”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered just before he leaned to his lips for the first time and kissed him.

Grantaire's eyes were closed from then on. He sensed only his touch, his lips, his taste, and his warmth. He could feel Enjolras burning with desire, and his whole body was covered in muscle and sweet sweat. He could feel his breath stroking his ears, his cheeks, his chest, his abdomen, his thighs. All he could feel was that Enjolras was whispering something in a language he didn't even understand. He touched his hair - it was softer than he had imagined. He touched his body - he was smoother than any he had ever had in front of him. He hugged him around the shoulders, pressed him against him, chest to chest, and listened to his pounding heart.

Grantaire was afraid of the moment he would have to open his eyes. He was afraid that all this was just one magical dream. The darkness under his eyelids, Enjolras's sweet voice, still breathing in a rush of ecstasy, and his fingers stroking his hair put him to sleep.

And when Grantaire opened his eyes in the morning, he was alone.

Grantaire stood in front of the door that led to Café Musain. He had the last remnants of a cigarette in his mouth. He looked at the lighted lamps and wondered if he should enter. Everything that happened yesterday and this morning was like a dream to him. Only a faint, red spot on his collarbone and on the inside of his thigh convinced him that it was a reality. They hurt when he touched these signs of love. Like his heart.

He dropped the cigarette butt, stepped on it several times, and finally entered the cafe. When he reached the back room, where  _ Les Ámis  _ used to meet, the celebration was just beginning. Courfeyrac takes care of it. Together with Jehan, they created a large poster,  _ Good luck, Enjolras! _ , which was painted with several flowers and sprinkled with glitter. There were snacks on the tables, along with several soft and alcoholic drinks. Behind the bar sat a young girl, the daughter of the owners of the cafe, who helped out here and was in charge of their private event tonight. Balloons pumped with helium were attached to some chairs. Bahorel was already showing how, otherwise his manly and lush voice, sounded whistling and funny. Whenever he spoke, Joly almost choked on his own saliva.

He was the last to arrive. When he opened the door, he drew attention to himself. Everyone just looked at him, some raised their glasses to greet him, someone greeted him, and Jehan waved joyfully at him. However, Grantaire's eyes were looking for only one person.

Enjolras stood at one of the tables, holding a glass of juice in his hand and - smiling. He talked to Feuilly and Combeferre. He had slightly red cheeks - probably from the heat in the room or from what his two favorite friends were saying. Maybe both.

Grantaire waited for the blond to look at him, give him a look, perhaps smile at him, or sadness gleamed in his eyes that he would never see each other again; but nothing like that happened. Enjolras paid attention to the others, but not to him. Grantaire thus overwhelmed the bitterness in his mouth with the taste of wine.

Less than two hours after Grantaire arrived and sat down at the table with Joly and Bossuet, the music died down, and Enjolras, accustomed to everyone paying attention to him, stood in his chair. Combeferre stood beside him carefully, careful not to let his friend fall. “Friends, I would like to thank you very much for preparing such a celebration for me.”

“Thanks to me!” Courfeyrac shouted.

Jehan threw a canapé at him. “It was collective work!”

Enjolras laughed and continued, “It's weird how easy it is for me to speak in front of an audience without being frightened. Talking about topics that will change us all. Propose changes that will improve our lives. Look into the eyes of strangers and not be afraid. Gain courage through discussions and sometimes pointless quarrels. But…” He moistened his lips with his tongue and breathed. “This is something else. Now I stand here in front of friends who mean so much to me. In front of the ones that got me this far. Without your support, without your friendship, and without your love, I wouldn’t be where I am today.” At one point, Joly and Jehan both sniffed, tears welling up. Bossuet wrapped his arms around Joly and began to whisper something in his ear. Grantaire gritted his teeth, trying not to notice his stomach clench. He didn't know if he would have the strength to hear it all. “I don't find the right words to say to understand how deep my feelings are. Elodie— ” The young girl behind the bar looked at Enjolras and smiled. “—Please,” he said only as he jumped out of his chair and walked over to the bar. The girl disappeared under the bar for a moment. When she got up, she held carefully wrapped packages of gold paper in her hands. Grantaire recognized them. These were the packages that lay in Enjolras's apartment. “I hope this is enough.” With that, he handed each of them a package. When he reached Grantaire, he finally looked at him. Grantaire would have sworn that when he handed him the package, their fingers rubbed against each other for a few seconds.

Grantaire could feel the others unpacking the packages, some laughing, Joly finally crying, and Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around Enjolras so tightly that he squeezed him almost entirely on his chest. Grantaire dry swallowed. He unwrapped the ribbon, tore the paper, opened the lid—

Grantaire took a loud breath. Oxygen got stuck in his lungs. He couldn’t inhale or exhale. Enjolras' favorite, white sweatshirt was in the package. She was a little washed away, but he could still smell Enjolras's cologne. The sweatshirt featured a joint photo of all the  _ Les Ámis _ , which they took last Christmas. In the next frame, only the two of them were in the photo. Grantaire had no idea that such a photograph existed. They stood with their backs to the one who had photographed them, leaning against the railing and looking at each other in silence. Grantaire remembered that night. They were at Courfeyrac’s apartment, tired of planning the demonstration, and gradually fell to the ground. Grantaire was so nervous about the demonstration that he had to go smoking on the balcony. And at that moment, Enjolras came to see him. He wanted to make sure she was okay. He waited with him in the cold air for several long minutes, said nothing, and then brought him a glass of water.

Beneath it all was a hidden used diary. Grantaire placed the package on his lap and pulled the diary out. It was Enjolras' five-year diary. There were a lot of notes in it, studies, demonstration points, work papers, charity information. But most of all, he had remarks about what each of his friends had said. Jokes, glosses, suggestions for discussions. There were drawings he painted himself. Sometimes just sketches, sometimes attempts at portraits. It was written on the last page of the diary - _ I know that everything is in good hands now _ .

Grantaire couldn't stand it anymore. He set the package of presents on the table and stood up. He left the room quickly, unaware of the others calling to him and asking what was going on. He left the Musain, turned right, seeing his own apartment, where another bottle of alcohol was waiting for him. He was almost crossing the road when someone grabbed his arm. He quickly pulled him to the side under one large, bushy tree, from which almost all the leaves had fallen. Grantaire, despite the anger, sadness, and despair that welled up in his eyes like tears, saw a dim outline that could only belong to one man, Enjolras. “Grantaire—”

“Shut up, for God's sake!” Grantaire shouted, wincing. Enjolras let go of his arm and took a step back. Not because he was afraid, but to give him some personal space. He knew how much he hated brunettes when people clung to him unnecessarily. Grantaire felt the pain coming from knowing that Enjolras knew everything about him. Because he knows what will hurt him. Because he knows what he likes. He wanted to reach out and stab him. “If you say anything, I'll kill you.” Enjolras blinked slowly and sighed. But he said nothing. He kept his eyes on the elder, analyzing his every breath, movement, and swallowing. As if trying to read if he was okay. “Stop it!” The brunette shouted, taking a step forward. He stood directly in front of Enjolras. Just a little and his fist would touch his perfect nose.

But he couldn't do it. Instead, he punched him weakly in the chest. He shivered as he felt Enjolras' strong heartbeat beneath her. He could no longer play the hero. He released his fist and dug his fingers into his jacket. “I hate you,” he whispered as Enjolras hugged him tightly. “I hate you so much,” he whispered again as he snuggled up to him and sobbed into his chest.

Enjolras was silent. He just held him tightly in his arms. He moved one hand to his hair and stroked it slowly. He still had the gel from yesterday's meeting in them. He probably wasn't even able to take a shower after their passionate night. He still wanted to smell his scent, to feel like he was still embracing him. Enjolras was terrified. What happened between them yesterday was to encourage Grantaire, to give him the love and understanding he had felt for him for so long. But instead, it was starting to destroy the brunette. Enjolras felt stupid, and his heart was now beating with fear for a friend. “I did it to make you happy.”

“So you felt sorry for me.”

“No. I did it selfishly for my happiness too.”Enjolras pulled Grantaire away and looked him in the face. His cheeks were red, hot, and wet with tears. “I did it for the two of us. To finally be happy for a few moments. So that we can finally write the end after the chapter of our lives together and start a new chapter. So that you can bounce back and pursue your dream and build your life, Grantaire.” He leaned over and kissed his forehead. “It was a farewell. For both of us. We needed it.”

“Don’t say it.”

“Now you start the next stage. A new, better stage without me. You will find a new apartment, a great friend, you will finish school, you will be an artist.”

“Enjolras…”

“In a few months, you won't even remember what it was like talking to me. You won't know what it was like when we argued. You won't even know how you felt about me. There will be only one memory left for the night, which will then be overwhelmed by several other happy memories that you will create after I’m not here.”

“Please.”

“Grantaire—”

“Don't go,” Grantaire said in a firm voice, finally looking at the blond.

Pain gleamed in Enjolras's eyes, but was soon replaced by his typical, hard convictions. “I have to go.”

“Don't go,” Grantaire said, his voice breaking in half again.

Enjolras said nothing this time, just let him go.

“Don't go,” Grantaire asked weakly.

But Enjolras had already turned and returned to the cafe.

“Don't go,” Grantaire whispered before sitting on the floor and pulling his knees to his chest. He cried again.

Everything that happened after that was like a fog for Grantaire. He just felt someone touch his shoulders and help him to his feet. The familiar smell of chamomile and disinfectant told him it was Joly. Together with Bossuet, they took him to their apartment, where Musichetta was waiting for them with freshly brewed jasmine tea and cake. But Grantaire didn’t want to eat or drink. He didn't cooperate when Joly took him to the bathroom so he could wash him. Like a rag doll, he had his clothes taken off and placed in duvets that were too soft and fragrant for him.

After four days, Grantaire finally left the room for something other than to bounce to the bathroom. He filled the tub, soaked in the hot bath for an hour and a half, and played with the bubbles. He was barely recognizable in the reflection of the mirror. As if his hair and beard had grown a few inches. The contours of his ribs were visible again. This was the last time this happened—

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. He rinsed his face with cold water and borrowed Bossuet's clothes, which he had left ready for him on the nightstand the day Grantaire was taken to their apartment. He walked into the living room, where melodic sounds flowed. Musichetta was doing a manicure, Joly was sitting on the couch humming melodies from his favorite musical, and Bossuet was lounging on the carpet with a book in his hand. When the three of them noticed him, they stopped doing their activities and smiled at him. Grantaire was almost frightened by the reaction, and his brain began to scream at him to return to the room when Joly asked him, “Would you like some tea? Are you hungry?”

“Yes and no,” Grantaire replied, wrapping his arms around his elbows. Joly smiled at him and got up from the couch so he could pour him some fresh tea.

“What are you watching?” The brunette asked as he boldly took a step forward.

“More like what Joly is watching. And yeah, it's a High School Musical again,” Bossuet growled, lay down again and started focusing on his book. He hoped he couldn't tell he hadn't actually read it. Ever since he heard Grantaire was bathing, he could think of nothing but his friend. Joly had taught him several times that he should treat him normally, as always, not asking him anything unnecessarily, especially not feel sorry for him and letting him speak whenever he wanted. But it was hard. His friendly and inquisitive nature wanted reassurance that his rarest friend was fine. He didn't understand what it meant to have depression, but once, when he had the opportunity to see Grantaire at the very bottom, he was unable to do anything. He stood in one place, scalded, knocking in fear. It was the first time he had seen Joly so rational and cold. He didn't cry until he was sure Grantaire was okay. Thanks to that, he loved him even more. But the fear for their friend never disappeared.

Joly returned to the room, handed Grantaire lukewarm tea, and sat down next to him. He pressed lightly against him, just to wipe their thighs against himself, and looked him in the face. Grantaire drank slowly, smiled, and looked at Joly. The smile returned. “Is he gone?” The brunette asked.

Joly looked down, swallowed dry, and replied, “Yes. It's been three days.”

Grantaire stayed with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta for another week until he was sure he could return to the silence of his apartment. He hid the package he had received from Enjolras in a closet in his bedroom and went to pour himself a glass of wine.

It had been two years since Enjolras had lived in the United States and the year he had last returned to Paris. Feuilly's words that their blonde leader would probably never return to their homeland were slowly beginning to become a reality. But the words that hurt so much back then, Grantaire commented now with a loud, sad sigh. But he couldn't do more.

A lot has changed in those two years. Especially in Grantaire's life. When Enjolras returned home for a week for the first time in three months and spent the weekend with his friends, Grantaire couldn’t take his eyes off him. Enjolras looked -  _ different _ . Still beautiful, but different. Something almost exotic breathed from him. Its slight dominance seems to have become much more pronounced. He started using another cologne and cut his hair. He also gestured less while speaking, but smiled more. The brunette couldn’t resist and kissed him on the cheek as he said goodbye. He was softer than he remembered. Enjolras didn't respond to his touch, just looked at him for a few seconds and then walked away.

That day Grantaire met Thomas. A young, amateur screenwriter of short films. What began in their relationship as a one-night affair grew into a concept Grantaire didn't like - friends with benefits. He didn't think Thomas was his friend, but he was a very attentive lover, so he enjoyed his time with him as best he could. But when their nightly pleasures became long walks in parks, visits to museums and trips to the sea; Grantaire didn't even remember it properly. Before Grantaire realized this, Thomas asked him if he would like to move in with him. Unlike the brunette, he had a spacious, large apartment that he lived in with only his small dog, George. Grantaire agreed without much thought.

It was no secret that without Enjolras Grantaire had no desire to continue to fight for human rights, which was still largely unknown to him. He had only been in sporadic contact with the  _ Les Ámis _ . He only met Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta regularly. They were also the first friends to ever meet his partner. They themselves had hearts in their eyes when they saw how beautifully artistic, kind, though too sincere and sarcastic, Thomas treats their friend. They looked like happy parents whom their son had brought home to show his fiancé.

Grantaire still didn’t forget Enjolras. In the first months, he kept writing with him. They called several times with a video, but each time Enjolras's face appeared on the screen, Grantaire cried. Therefore, Enjolras decided that it would be better if he didn’t see or hear. Over time, Enjolras stopped writing off as soon as he received his messages. Sometimes he was able to write to him for a day or two after reading the messages. He always apologized for having too much work or fell asleep. Grantaire forgave him. However, as the delays began to increase by weeks, the brunette knew what he was talking about. Enjolras wanted his friend to slowly forget about him. To cool his feelings for him. To be just friends. Grantaire begged him at first not to do so. To always be here for him. But Enjolras was, as always, stubborn. And his tactics were bearing fruit - Grantaire only realized a few days ago that it had been five months since he and Enjolras had last written.

Everything seemed great to Grantaire. It was as if he had sucked in new air into his lungs and jumped over the fence that was holding him back and unable to continue on his journey.

But sometimes it was as if the old Grantaire had returned. He was sitting in the apartment, a glass of sweet, red wine in his hand. He was wearing Enjolras's sweatshirt, from which his scent had long since washed away. He remembered the days when they talked, hugged, and kissed. He remembered their night together. He wanted to write to him, beg him to come back and be with him.

But in the end, he always changed his mind. He poured the glass with the rest of the wine into the sink. He took off his sweatshirt and hid it back in a package he hid to the very bottom of the closet, along with brooms and cleaning supplies. He blocked Enjolras' number from calling him. He turned off the computer so he wouldn't look at his photos and examine his every move. He lay down on the bed, where Thomas, still half asleep, snuggled up to him and whispered good night to him.

And maybe - maybe it was better this way.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [2WNikiAngel](http://www.2wnikiangel.tumblr.com).


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